


Celebration

by AHS



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Brian pov, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-07
Updated: 2007-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:01:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AHS/pseuds/AHS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian only celebrates what he believes in.  Brian pov, (early to mid) 2nd season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Celebration

I don’t do holidays.

A fact which caused some hurt looks, and a stuck-out lower lip I just wanted to bite. My seeming disinterest in sharing special occasions with him. But the longer he knew me, the more he realized it had nothing to do with him. It was just a fucking facet of my character. I’m not a good little joiner and I don‘t bullshit.

I don’t celebrate birthdays because I don’t believe in getting older. Simple as that. And if Brian Kinney doesn’t celebrate his own birthday, why the fuck should he celebrate anybody else’s?

I don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day because I never believed in love and certainly not relationships. Plus I’m in advertising and I know we create the whole fucking day. And any asshole dumb enough to let Cupid get him by the balls and/or wallet deserves to be conned.

I don’t celebrate Thanksgiving because being grateful chafes me like cheap underwear. Which is why I never wear any, cheap or otherwise, and I never say thank you. Also, eating all that food makes you fat, and I don’t believe in being fat. And those fucking Pilgrims, all self-righteous and austere, always reminded me of my mother. Though she continues to exist, for the preservation of my sanity I choose to not fucking believe in my mother.

I don’t celebrate… well, I won’t say I don’t celebrate Christmas. Debbie would kick my ass and maybe stop inviting me over every year. But any guy‘s lap I might sit in will be hot and hard, not tubby and old. If I want something fabulous, I’ve got money and can buy it for myself. And if you asked me for most of my life, I would have said I didn’t believe in God. That’s probably still what I’d say.

I believe in God when I want something. Like 95% of the general population, if they’re honest with themselves. We all pray when there’s something we fucking need. We look up to the ceiling, to the hypothetical heavens, and if we have to pretend there’s someone beyond it then we pretend. We make our presentations, make deals to get what we want. Sometimes it works. More often it doesn’t and we curse God up and down, even though once again we don’t believe in him.

But there’s only been one time when I _begged_ God for something. I don’t beg, for anything, and yet I dropped to my knees and pleaded with God to fucking exist and help me… please. Help him. Help Justin.

High school prom. Another celebration I didn’t believe in. Should’ve known, stayed away. Too perfect…

I’d come home still wearing his blood on me. My skin, my clothes, my conscience. I hadn’t left the hospital for days. Hadn’t wanted to, but Mikey finally convinced me. Didn’t even want to shower. It made me sick to see the evidence of what had happened, but I didn’t want to wash away… Shit, his _life_ was all over me. Red so vibrant, like he was. Like he still had to be.

And it was the only way I could touch him.

When I did shower, the steam played tricks with my eyes and I saw him in there with me. Smiling. Felt him running soap along my skin, knowing I didn’t have the strength. Kissing me so I wouldn’t notice the water swirling pink. Wrapping an arm around me when my legs gave out and I fell. But I knew he wasn’t real. So I screamed at him to fucking leave me alone, and he did.

And I wanted him back and I cried and I punched the tile and pitched forward, my face in the floor as the water pounded, and I don’t know how I didn’t drown. Because I think I wanted to. But instead I fucking prayed. For a long time all I said was “please,” over and over again. Then I made my deal. If Justin woke up, if Justin was okay… I’d give him up. Make him not want me, if he even still did. I’d given him the best night of his life, but I was also the reason it turned into the worst. Possibly the end…

No. God took the deal. After too many weeks of fucking hell… through the glass… eyes not opening, body not moving… but he took it. Justin came out of the coma and I could breathe. And though I continued to keep watch, always in hiding, I prepared myself for not having him in my life. I returned to all my old beliefs and practices. Never really abandoned but now hollow and times one hundred.

Fucking. Getting my dick sucked. Countless, nameless, often faceless tricks. Good, bad drugs. Booze always flowing. Babylon my church, pleasure my only religion. Way too much of all of the above, and I don’t know how I managed not to kill myself. Because I think I wanted to.

Mostly I wanted to forget. Never managed that either.

But it turns out that God’s not a total asshole. Maybe he took note of how fucking miserable I was that summer. How I couldn’t even enjoy a fucking blow job, no matter how high I got. How I really did do my best to stay away, and that was enough. Because he made Justin need me, need me to help him not be afraid. God wouldn’t have sent his mother, asking me to take him, if it wasn’t true. So I took him… I let him in.

And when he let me in, I’ve never been more fucking grateful. You know what? It didn’t chafe. It felt better than anything.

I still don’t do holidays. They’ll never be my thing. But maybe I’ll make a little effort now and then. Say “Happy stupid made-up day,” and make him smile. Because there’s something I believe in now.

I believe in Justin. And he’s here, fucking beautiful, and with me.

That’s cause for celebration.


End file.
